Murder.

***Continued from "Joy"...


The next morning I woke up for my usual 6am run.  I ate my banana and stretched my muscles, then went to the garage to grab my bottle of water.  Normally when I did this routine, D'Jango would wake up and sleepily tell me good morning with his meow, but today I didn't see D'Jango.

I poked around the garage a bit but figured he was probably just hiding under something.  So I went for my run and came back an hour later, still finding no D'Jango.  This time I opened the garage, called after him and finally began to look around the house.  At one point I thought I found a skunk, but it was just an ugly black cat sleeping by our fence.

When I finally gave up, I went inside to grab a fresh glass of water.  Around that time Mom entered the kitchen.

"I can't find D'Jango, Mom!"

"Well...there's a reason."  she said uncomfortably.

"Did Dad take him back to the farm?!"  I asked with a crack in my voice.

Mom sighed and uneasily begin to tell me a horrible story.

"Last night after you went to bed, Dad and Grant were coming home from the farm.  I walked in the garage to talk to them when we noticed D'Jango wasn't jumping up to great us.  Just then Dad turned to see that big ugly stinkin' cat.  The one that killed the neighbor's cat too!  Instantly, Dad and Grant ran after that cat.  Grant threw a shovel at it but missed.  Dad yelled at it and threatened it.  

I walked over to D'Jango, who was still curled up in a ball.  His neck was bloody where the cat had made his attack.

Your father and your brother took care of him and we all had trouble sleeping afterwards.   I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I want you to think about how happy we made that kitten in the first, and last few weeks of his life.  He would have never known that joy if you had left him out on his own at the farm."

I choked back tears at the thought of my baby kitten being murdered.  It hurt my heart so much.  I had found the kitten that was meant for me.  He was wonderful.  I had loved him so much, and yet that love was not enough.  I had promised to train him and take care of him.  I played with him every morning and every evening and even at lunch when I could.  I had napped with him and fed him with my own two hands.  I loved my kitten!  But some cat couldn't see that.

Suddenly a cold child passed through me as I realized the ugly black cat I had faced earlier that morning was the same sick beast who unreasonably killed my innocent kitten.  I was sickened.

I went to my room and thought about this stupid cat.  Who kills a kitten for no reason?

Then I remembered that I owned a gun.

I walked into the living room and approached my dad with a suggestion.

"Can I shoot it?"

"What??"

"I want to shoot that cat.  He is a mean cat and if he's killed my kitten and the neighbor's cat as well, I don't see any sense in letting him roam around, free to do it again to another innocent animal."

Dad talked to me about the type of gun and bullet I owned and said it wasn't suitable to shoot inside city limits.  I didn't like this answer, but I walked back into my room anyways.  I thought about it a moment, then decided that murder was the only answer I had.

I walked outside and around the house where I had seen the gang-banger cat earlier.  To my surprise, Dad was already out there, looking for this monster.  Neither of us found it, but we decided the cat did need to be addressed in a sensible manner.

My desire to kill this cat was expressed in a text message to one of my close friends.  I had explained the situation and why I thought this cat should die.

To my surprise he replied by saying this: "If I killed people for fun would it be fair to stop me?"

At first I was confused, and irritated at this question.  What did this have to do with my kitten??

I quickly responded, "That's totally different, it's people, and it can't be fun."

Then I thought about it a little bit and said, "It's not a safe cat, it needs to be killed so it won't keep killing others.  But if this is a death penalty question, I never realized my true opinion on it until right about now."

It was true.  Up until that point I had never had a strong feeling one way or the other towards the death penalty.  I had discussed it with friends plenty of times and I had even studied it from a religious standpoint to some extent.  If anything, I thought everyone deserved love because that's how I see the world, as a happy-go-lucky planet that can be healed by good works and positive thinking.

All of that changed when someone I loved (albeit just a kitten) was senselessly murdered.  I thought about my friend from work that had been murdered a year ago inside his apartment.  The police still haven't figured out what happened, although they guessed it to be a drug deal gone wrong, and more recently decided it was a mistake in identity.  My friend was not involved in the type of stuff that typically gets young men shot.

It pained me to think of his poor Momma, and how she must feel towards the murderers the same thing I felt towards that ugly black cat.

The death penalty wasn't designed to kill people for no reason, it was designed to put away the people who are unsafe and not fit to roam the earth freely.  By allowing killers to keep roaming, we are potentially allowing them to commit another murder, therefore affecting another family's life and emotions.

Of course the Christian in me wants to say that we should extend the same grace that was extended to us.  I want to believe that there are no people who are just born mean and senseless.  They're mean and evil because they are hurt.  Deep, deep down, they are hurting children who have hidden and shoved their pain so far down that they no longer have control over their actions.  Their pain has been so great that it has caused them a life of raging evil.

We were all born into sin-into evil.  Every last one of us is filthy and sick in our own way.  We all have pain, struggles and demented ideas.  Perhaps fault comes when we choose to act on these ideas.  Then again, perhaps nothing is anyone's fault because we are all naturally sinful.

What is justice, after all?  Is it even possible?

In a fallen world we are sometimes asked to face the injustice and live with it.  At the same time we are called to greater, intended to live with a purpose.  Where do we find the balance?  Why so much gray?

All this from a kitten I only knew for three weeks.  Always in our hearts...D'Jango. 

Joy.

A few weeks ago I was having the most splendid day ever.  I woke up early and headed to the farm with my brother.  I was so excited because we were finally getting to help grandpa make a garden for this summer.  I had been asking about this project for weeks and the time had finally come.

I donned by dirty jeans and ripped t-shirt and headed north towards the farm.  When we got to grandpa's house he put on his coveralls and met us outside in the patch a dirt that would soon be the garden.

Before we could start, Grandpa had us collect a hodge-podge of things.  First an 18 inch stick, then a piece of string, and finally a water hose.  Each item took us to a different corner of the homestead, searching and finding.

While I followed my brother around the back side of the garage in search of a water hose, I was filled with nostalgia.  I remembered doing things just like this when I was much younger.  Growing up around the farm was the funnest part of my childhood.  We were always playing in the dirt, making up games and creating hiding houses.

One of my favorite memories on the farm was finding litters of kittens each spring.  I always searched for new litters and upon finding them it was customary for me to catch one, then run inside and show grandma.   Grandma would then help me take care of them and make them a box to live in so we could feed them and hopefully tame them into being friendly cats.

I was reminiscing this springtime scene in my head when I said to my brother, "I wish I would find a kitten."  It didn't help that I had been bugging my parents for one since I moved back home.  We have a lovely dog, but I've never been much of a dog person.  I wanted a kitten that would cuddle with me and sleep at my feet while I read books and paint.  Needless to say, my desire to find a kitten was pretty strong.

As soon as the words left my mouth my brother replied in his always cool, never excited tone, "there's one."  He threw out the words as though it were as common as seeing dirt.  One side glance to the left and he continued walking like nothing extraordinary had happened.

Me on the other hand, was a different story.

As I turned the corner of the barn I saw the most adorable kismet moment ever!  All alone, by himself at only a few weeks old, was this tiny, precious white ball of fur with black spots.  He was so small and so sweet.  I ran to his side and instantly grabbed him.  As soon as I looked in his eyes I knew he was to be mine.

It was a sign.

Kittens that small don't wander off by themselves, and they especially don't go out of momma's eyesight.  I looked around the nooks and crannies nearby but found no other kittens, nor any sign of a momma cat.  This definitely wasn't good for the little guy, but it was great for me because it meant I had stumbled on to the responsibility of caring for a baby kitten.

Of course the next thing to happen was my pure bred instinct.  I ran inside to show Grandma.  Grandma, who is much slower now than she was when I was a child, was no less excited and pleased with my discovery.  We petted him and held him and talked about what to name him.

Then suddenly my heart was split.  I was supposed to be helping in the garden!  The garden was why I went out there in the first place!  I told Grandma I had to finish helping Grandpa and kindly asked her to watch my new baby.

Grandma joyfully accepted and soon found a towel and a blanket for our new friend.

After I finished helping in the garden I knew I had only a small amount of time to get ready for a wedding I was attending that afternoon.  I walked back up to Grandma's house and found her on the porch cuddling with my new kitten.  She talked about how strange it was for a kitten that small to be so calm and comfortable with people.  I agreed.

"Are you gonna keep him?"  Grandma asked me.

An ornery smile crossed my face as I tried to explain how badly I had been wanting a kitten, yet how persistently my dad had told me I couldn't have one.

"What do you think I should do?" I asked.

"I'm not telling you one way or the other because I don't want your daddy being mad at me!"  she replied with a chuckle and a grin.

I knew I didn't have long to decide because I needed to get ready for this wedding.  Plus, I couldn't just set the kitten back where I found it and come back for it later after thinking about it, because it would be gone.

I thought about leaving it on Grandma's front porch room, but then I knew she would worry about it and go out of her way to take care of it, which she didn't need to do in her health.

So I took the kitten.

I wasn't sure if I would keep it or not, but I was dang sure going to try!  Besides, I could probably sneak it into my room and keep it for the weekend without anyone noticing.

Except as soon as I stepped out of my car and into our driveway, I looked up to see my Dad walking towards me.  I hid the kitten behind my back, and because I am a horrible liar I did a poor job of trying to hide the smirk on my face.

"What is it?"  Dad must have sensed it.

"Nothing."

"What's behind your back?"

Shoot.

I was caught.

I melted and took the kitten from behind my back.  I held it up in my daddy's face and gushed over how cute it was and how it was fate that we met and how I had to keep it and that I would take care of it completely.

"No!"

"But Dad..."

"No.  We are not keeping that cat.  Take it back now."

Unfortunately, I didn't have time to take it back.  I only had time to throw together an outfit and rush to the wedding I was already late for.

So I grabbed a bucket and some towels and gently placed my kitten inside.  (Mom was already on my side, by the way. She had kindly offered to watch out for it while I was busy going about my Saturday.)

The next day I played with the kitten and fed him from a syringe and loved it and ignored my Dad's nagging to take it back.

A few more days went by and Mom and I took turns hand feeding the kitten milk.  We played with her and grew deeply attached.

When my brother came home from school, he instantly warmed up to the kitten.  In fact, he named it D'Jango.  Where he got the name, I do not know. 

"This is the coolest cat ever!"  my brother would say.

We all agreed.  He was always purring.  He was very friendly, especially for such a young kitten and a wild one too.  D'Jango always sat on our shoulder and rode calmly as we walked about the house, doing our daily duties.

This kitten had to be only 4 weeks old at the most.  For a kitten that young to be so playful and people-oriented is extremely rare.

Eventually we weaned D'Jango off of the syringe and taught him to lap up milk with his tongue.  For some reason he always had to put his paw in the milk first, making a mess of himself, then he would begin drinking.

The whole family fell in love with D'Jango, even Dad.  We loved him and we all took turns taking care of him and playing with him.

During week two of his stay with us, our cousins from Nebraska came to visit.  They loved her too.  Every day that week someone was constantly holding or playing with D'Jango.  I was so proud of my kitten.  D'Jango was growing so fast too!  Towards the end of the week we decided he was old enough to sleep outside of his box.  Up until then we had been keeping him in a box in the garage.  But seeing how he didn't run off and he followed us everywhere, we started allowing him to use the entire garage.  He loved this idea because the second we shut him in a box he cried and cried.

The following Tuesday was a big day for D'Jango.  He had graduated from a milk-only diet to dry cat food and milk.  Mom bought some kitten food for him and I looked at the Dollar Store for a cute collar and litter box for my baby.  I didn't find either, but decided I'd make a trip to Petco soon.

After work that day I painted in my studio.  The entire time D'Jango played at my feet or watched from my shoulder.  Even our dog Minnie had warmed up to this kitten.  She was absolutely fascinated with him.

Around 10pm I got ready for bed.  I changed into my pajamas, brushed my teeth and then took D'Jango out to the garage.  Kissing him over and over again as I always did when I put him to bed, I told him I loved him and set him on his tie-died fleece blanket he loved so much.

Before I left the garage he was already curled up in a ball and drifting into sweet kitten-sleep.


***To be Continued...

Passion.

The older I get the more I realize that the world is somewhat void of passionate people.  I mean people who live out of their passion are really, really hard to find.

I think most people do the day to day thing and then use what's leftover to hide their passion in their back bedroom once or twice a month.

I have so much respect for people who do what they love.  There is a big difference in purchasing items or services from someone who is successful but not passionate, than from purchasing from someone who is passionate but maybe not the most well-known.

I have a few passionate friends, mostly older.  I think younger people are often times in search of what their passion is.  Fortunately, some find it by the time mid-thirties hit.  Others, spend a lifetime searching.

I want to always surround myself with passionate people if I can.  They are few and far between, which makes them unique, special--worth holding on to.  I have love and compassion for people who do what they feel they should be doing, and with no other explanation but a gut-wrenching feeling that fuels them.

Passion is a tricky thing.  Describing it is like trying to describe water.  It's there, and we know it when we see it, but how do we describe it?  I have a lot of passion for a lot of things and it scares me.  It scares me because I know it is possible for this fuel to run out, and when the fuel runs out it is not a pretty feeling.

Passion takes lots of care and maintenance.  Over do it and you risk losing it all, but under do it and you'll never live.  The ying and yang of it all is very spiritual, personal and delicate.  It takes a sensitive spirit to nurture passion within oneself.  And that is one reason why passion is absolutely terrifying. 

The dictionary has a few definitions, the first being:  1. a strong and barely controllable emotion.

This fits what I am talking about.  Passion is the fire in your soul that makes you want to do something, sometimes for reasons you don't understand, or sometimes for no reason at all.  It's the kick in the stomach that just says you absolutely have to do something or else you'll be miserable.  Now that I am describing it, I think passion sounds a lot like the holy spirit.  Perhaps they are similar.  Perhaps they are one in the same.

I think passion, creativity and spirituality all run deeply into one another.  Talk to many artists and they can tell you that their creations are built to heal both themselves and others.

For some reason the modern church has shut out these things--mostly because they are uncontrollable and can potentially cause someone to act out of the order of service.

Fortunately, there are many churches who have been made aware of this problem and now welcome a more creative, spirit-filled worship style.  I believe this is how it was meant to be.  Look how creative and free God is every single day.  The clouds change by the minute, from loud and majestic to soft and fluffy, and finally a bright pink with purple whims.

God is definitely a God of order as well.  24 hours in each day are as consistent as time itself.  God is a God of order yes, but he is also a God of spirit-led performance, living and confession.

When the fullness of life has filled you to the measure, it is only natural for passion to spill out.  Passion doesn't spill out politely as a formula.  Passion spills out wildly like a rainbow suddenly bursting into crazy liquid; spilling all over the place and making a big huge, beautiful, crazy mess.  We often times do not know where our rainbow liquid will land.  We don't know what works and what doesn't till we give it a whirl.  Fortunately, somewhere amidst the chaos and covering, we find the purpose.  We find the tick--the thing that all consumingly screams "YES!"

That's when passion is on point.

Interestingly enough, the second definition google gives me for passion is this: 2. the suffering and death of Jesus.

Is passion what Jesus felt as he died on the cross for our sins?  Did his strong and uncontrollable emotion rise up from his gut and fulfill him with desire that could not be satisfied until he finished what he was sent to do?  I think, yes.

Death was Jesus' purpose.  It was his God-given purpose so that we could all live a free life.   A life free of sin, free of death and full of passion...if we choose it.

Passion is what gives us meaning.  It's what makes our life matter and our time count.  Jesus was the perfect example of this.